


Causality and Causation

by AndThenHeGotKnockedUp



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gil never met the Whitlys, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Martin Whitly is still the Surgeon, Martin Whitly was never arrested, Off-screen Character Death, Sad with a Happy Ending, main pairing is consensual and loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp/pseuds/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp
Summary: 2004.Martin Whitly, renowned cardiothoracic surgeon and philanthropist, husband to the Milton heir and father of a ballet prodigy and a fashion darling, was gunned down in front of his mansion in the early hours of the morning.Corporal Gil Arroyo is assigned to the case.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Vijay Chandasara, Malcolm Bright/Vijay Chandasara
Comments: 10
Kudos: 67
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	1. Fall 2004

2004 is an exciting year for Gil Arroyo. 

After years of grueling work, countless patrols, traffic tickets, and a multitude of small collars for petty theft and drug dealing, he finally makes Corporal. Of course he knew it would take a while for a man like him to climb the ranks, but it still stung every single time one of his white colleagues made the jump before him. Even Lieutenant Turner putting in a few words for him only sped up the process a bit. Still, he’s finally got his two chevrons now, sewn onto his uniform, to show his dedication. 

He has a fiancée now, too. Jackie is as whip smart as she is beautiful, and there’s rarely a day that goes by where he doesn’t wonder just how he managed to get her to agree to wear his ring. They’ve already set a date for a few months down the line. It’s just enough time to pull together a small ceremony with their family and friends. 

That would have been enough. Gil isn’t a selfish man by any means. A promotion and a bright future is more than he ever would have expected for the first five months of the year, but, as his mother always said, good things come in threes. 

When Turner assigns him to the case that fall, already preoccupied with the newest Surgeon murder, Gil knows this could make his career. He’s in the Le Mans before he registers what he’s doing.

Martin Whitly, renowned cardiothoracic surgeon and philanthropist, husband to the Milton heir and father of a ballet prodigy and a fashion darling, was gunned down in front of his mansion in the early hours of the morning. It made the news before the man took his last, painful breath. The first officers on the scene had to wade through the reporters who insisted on filming the paramedics’ futile attempts to slow the bleeding.

Gil, with the uniform that screams his rank, will have to push through them, too. He’ll have to document the scene with them yelling question after question at him, and he’ll have to look as competent as possible while doing so lest he bring their wrath down on the entirety of the NYPD. 

It’s… a lot. He pushes on regardless, parking as close to the scene as he can and using his badge liberally until he’s slipping between the barriers first responders set up. 

“Corporal,” a million voices shout at once.

Gil sees the pool of blood on the pavement. The body’s already been removed. The report will likely be on his desk by the end of the day, though the cause of death is fairly clear.

Martin Whitly was shot not once, not twice, not thrice, but _four_ times. Whoever shot him wanted to make sure that he died — as painfully as possible. 

Examining the scene quietly, he points some of the officers on the scene towards small things they should make sure to take pictures of, surfaces they should scrape, etc. The Whitly family will likely prefer their driveway is cleaned sooner rather than later. 

Gil is not looking forward to talking to the wife. He’s careful that the cameras don’t catch his grimace. Initial reports indicate she practically collapsed at the door when she came out to investigate the shots and quickly became a weeping mess in the living room, a bottle of gin clutched in her manicured hands. He doubts she’ll be in the state to give him much information. It’s his job, however, and so he closes the front door behind him and follows the sound of sobs through the foyer. 

Jessica Whitly sits on the couch dressed as fabulous as she always does in the society pages, but that’s where the glamour ends. Her feet and knees are tinged red with her husband’s dried blood. Her makeup, half-done and likely once the makings of something beautiful, is streaked down her face, the deep well of tears she’s shed having washed it away. She’s not holding a bottle of booze, though Gil is willing to bet the empty bottle on the table wasn’t so empty a few hours ago. 

He finds a sense of respect for her growing within him when she sees him and straightens up, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and trying to put a steely look on her face. “Mrs. Whitly,” he says softly, “I’m Corporal Arroyo.”

“It’s good to meet you,” she murmurs, voice shaking. “Now, if you’d let me know what you need from me, I have funeral arrangements to prepare.”

“I won’t take up much of your time, but I need to know if your husband had any enemies.” So far, with what he knows, Gil can’t think of a single person who would have killed the man. Martin Whitly was beloved in New York. So many people owed their lives to him, and he never met a reporter he couldn’t charm into giving him a good quote in the papers. 

“Martin? _Enemies?_ ” Mrs. Whitly laughs wetly. “Everyone loved him.”

Gil hesitates to say the first thing that comes to mind, but he thinks of Turner’s guidance and knows he has to. “Except you?”

The tears well up again, spilling over with another sob. “Trust me,” she says, voice going deep, rough, “if I wanted my husband gone, I would have just divorced him. My parents insisted on a prenup.” 

“But you weren’t considering divorce?”

“No. Corporal, women of my status don’t get divorced. They suffer for the sake of their children and image.”

Two children, if Gil remembers correctly, and he knows he does. Malcolm and Ainsley Whitly have been in the papers plenty in their lives. You’d have to be a hermit to not know of them in this city, and with as much as Jackie loves ballet, he definitely knows who Malcolm is. He’d taken her to see one of the performances the kid was in a few months back. They had terrible seats, but she was delighted. From what he could see then, the Whitly son was a slight boy with much promise.

He winces as he thinks about where the two of them are now, while their father’s body is cooling in the morgue. “Where are your children, Mrs. Whitly?”

She crushes the handkerchief between her hands. “My son, Malcolm, is at school. He attends a prestigious boarding school upstate. My daughter is upstairs with her nanny.” She bites her lip. “She doesn’t need to see me like this.”

“Your daughter didn’t see anything, did she?”

Mrs. Whitly shakes her head. “She was asleep. She doesn’t wake up for school until eight.”

Gil smiles kindly. “Then there’s no reason for me to bring her down.” He already feels terrible for questioning the woman in front of him, especially when his instincts are telling him she’s nothing more than a grieving widow.

She nods, relieved. “Is there anything else?”

“Not today.” He pulls a page out of his notebook and scribbles his extension number across the lines. “If you think of anyone who wished your husband harm, please call me.”

She takes it, stares at the number. “Of course, Corporal.”

Mrs. Whitly never calls.

Martin Whitly’s murder is left open but tabled in favor of more promising cases. 

Gil and Jackie watch the coverage of his funeral from their second-hand couch. 

The doctor’s old patients pour into the cemetery to pay their respects. The wealthy circle show up in force, all tailored black clothing and freshly shined shoes, and make a point to go up to the remaining three Whitlys, who stand by the casket as it’s lowered into a family plot. Jessica Whitly breaks into tears twice, though she manages a solid mask the rest of the time. Her son stands next to her, slim and weary, a comforting hand on her at all times, his eyes on his younger sister, who looks more subdued than she ever has in the society pages. 

Gil isn’t bothered that the case didn’t net him a promotion. He’s more concerned with the broken family on the screen and what he couldn’t give them —

Closure.


	2. Spring 2005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gil's interviews/interrogations in this chapter are not realistic police interviews and they weren't meant to be.

2005 is much quieter. 

There are rumors of an upcoming documentary on the beloved Doctor Whitly, likely set to be released on the anniversary of his death, but most people aren’t even talking about him anymore. New York city is too big to linger on one man’s death for too long. There are bigger and more newsworthy things to discuss, and so he’s relegated to the occasional footnote by the time February rolls around. 

Gil barely thinks of him anymore, either. He and Jackie are neck-deep in wedding plans, trying to come up with a ceremony and reception that will be memorable but not too costly. Tentative plans for their honeymoon have been set for late summer. It’ll be something short, but they’ll be together. That’s all Gil cares about.

At the precinct, he’s still a corporal under Lieutenant Turner, who continues to be an invaluable resource. Turner is unshakeable. He’s clean through and through, and Gil knows he wants to earn the same reputation. And he will, if Jackie is to be believed. She’s predicted a promotion might be headed his way, too. He shakes his head ruefully every time she brings it up, but deep down, he has his fingers crossed. Working under Turner has put him in Sergeant Shannon’s sphere as well. Gil can’t say he likes the man too much, though his distaste can’t blind him from seeing the opportunities. Shannon and Turner are the leads on the Surgeon case. If they catch a new lead and bring him and the rest of the team in to help, he could very well earn his next patch.

Gil pushes the thought aside. The Surgeon hasn’t struck in months, after all. 

The precinct itself has been quiet. There are new cases every day, but none are of the magnitude worthy of being noted. Small, one-off murders they’re able to solve within the week. The occasional robbery or drug case. It seems as if the entire city is waiting for the next Surgeon kill, bated breath and wide eyes.

His phone rings. 

Sure that it’s Turner calling from his office, Gil picks it up immediately and eagerly. A new case is just what he needs.

“Is this Corporal Arroyo?”

He blinks. He doesn’t recognize that voice. “Yes, this is he.”

“You’re the one who took point on the Whitly murder, right?” They don’t wait for a response, instead moving on smoothly. “You’re needed down in Narcotics.”

The line cuts.

“I’ll be right there,” he mutters, placing the phone back on the cradle. Nothing about the call makes sense. If there was any new information in the murder case, he would have been notified by his direct superiors. Narcotics being involved is odder yet. He has half a mind to call back and ask if it’s a prank, but Turner also has a reputation for being a serious man who doesn’t tolerate bullshit. No one would mess with his team on a whim for fear of incurring his wrath. 

Clipping his badge onto his belt, Gil logs off of his computer and heads to Narcotics. 

He gets into the Le Mans with a sense of dread. His day has gotten weirder and weirder. First, the call. Then he got to Narcotics only to be told a long story about well-known businessman Savir Chandasara and his lucrative drug running, which ended up being only tangentially related to why he was called down in the first place. When Gil finally had enough, tried to leave and brush them off, the detectives got to the point.

They had a good idea who killed Dr. Martin Whitly. That nabbed his attention. He was further told that while he likely would never be able to catch the contract killer who actually did the deed, they had firm suspicions who hired them. It sounded, initially, like an open and shut matter.

The problem is exactly who they suspect. 

Gil pulls away from the curb with a frown. If he’s not careful, this could blow up in his face, undo every good thing he managed to do for the NYPD with his original investigation into the doctor’s death. Accusing a very well-known, talented young man and his boyfriend of arranging his father’s brutal murder without indisputable proof could end his career in a second. The NYPD certainly wouldn’t think twice about dropping him. Even that aside, Gil doesn’t want to consider arresting Malcolm Whitly. He remembers seeing him on the TV so many months ago, beside his mother and sister as his father’s casket was lowered into the earth. He remembers seeing him glide and leap across the stage from so many rows back, Jackie’s arm brushing against his. He can’t see Malcolm paying for his father to be killed so painfully — and it’s clear whoever did pay for the murder wanted it to be that way. Contract killers usually work with efficiency, speed. Not four shots designed to cause a slow death.

But Gil has a job to do. He can’t afford to let anything cloud his judgement. 

He goes to the Chandasara mansion first.

Mrs. Chandasara opens the door, her face falling as soon as she catches sight of his uniform, and lets him in without a word. She leads him upstairs. “My son is in there,” she says and turns to leave.

“You can stay,” he says awkwardly. “Your son is entitled to a lawyer, too.”

“He doesn’t want one,” she replies, shaking her head. 

Weirder and weirder. Gil knocks on the bedroom door.

It’s practically ripped open by a tall, skinny Indian boy with a nervous expression.

Gil looks at him. His eyes are swollen, from crying most likely. There’s an ankle bracelet clasped around one of his ankles. That Gil expected, having known that both boys were put on temporary house arrest until it could be determined whether or not they were at fault. The NYPD was treading lightly on this one. The less attention it gets before they’re sure they can come out on top, the better. “Vijay Chandasara?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” the teen says halfheartedly. He doesn’t seem to enjoy his own quip. 

Gil nods, holding back commentary. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Vijay drops down onto the bed and shoves his hands under his thighs. “Aren’t you gonna arrest me, G-man?”

This time, Gil’s lips twitch even as he feels bad for the so obviously nervous kid. “G-men are usually FBI. I’m Corporal Gil Arroyo with the NYPD. And I’m just here to talk to you.”

“Cool beans.” Vijay can barely look at him. “Uh, what about?”

“I think you know what,” Gil says softly. He’s not sure why the boys did this, but he’s starting to feel like they really did do it, and God, does he feel bad for the one in front of him. He’s still hesitant to shift the blame over to Malcolm Whitly, however. There’s no evidence yet that he’s more at fault than Vijay. Guilt _can_ wreck a man, and it’s the elder Chandasara’s resources that were used to contract the killer.

“I’m sorry. I — okay, I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again if I had the chance,” the kid blathers on.

Gil stills and raises a brow. That’s not what he expected to hear.

“ _You,_ ” Vijay continues, pointing at Gil now, practically poking him in the chest, “don’t know what that fucker did to him.”

Gil holds his hands up half-jokingly. “I have no idea what or who you’re talking about, kid.”

Tears well up in Vijay’s eyes, and he lets his arm drop. “Mr. Whitly,” he says, and his face screws up in disgust. He’s the only one Gil has encountered yet ( _besides Mrs. Whitly_ , he thinks quietly) who dislikes the man. “He liked to, uh, hurt my baby boy. Malcolm, I mean.”

“Your boyfriend,” Gil clarifies.

“Yeah, my boo.” Vijay wipes at his tears angrily. “You know what the worst part about this is, G-man? I can’t even talk to him.”

They’ll probably be permanently separated, too, if they’re both convicted. Gil can’t help but feel for them, especially the Whitly boy if what Vijay is insinuating is true. “How did he hurt him?” Evidence of abuse could lower their sentences, at the very least, though they’d have had a better case if the murder was one of passion or self-defense instead of something planned the way it was. 

The fight seems to leave the kid then. He slumps into himself, despondent. “Mal said he forced him to do things.” Vijay presses his palms to his eyes. “He doesn’t like to be _touched_ , if you’re catchin’ what I’m throwing.”

Gil’s heart drops. He expected some measure of physical abuse after Vijay’s claim, but this was the last thing he hoped to hear. “I’m going to go talk to Malcolm,” he says numbly. “I might be back to ask more questions.”

Pulling his hands away from his face, Vijay latches onto one of Gil’s wrists. “If you’re gonna see him, tell him I love him. Please, G-man?”

“Sure, kid.”

There’s something daunting about the Whitly mansion. Gil’s been here before, back on that fateful day. The bloodstain has been thoroughly cleaned away, but he can still pinpoint exactly where it was based on memory alone, and he half-expects to hear the clamor of the biggest stations’ reporters behind him. He shakes his head and presses forward, ringing the doorbell.

When the door opens, he finds himself face to face with another familiar sight. Jessica Whitly stands tall and elegant in the threshold, not moving aside. Her makeup is impeccable this time, and her eyes are sharp, alert. “Corporal,” she says, clipped.

“Mrs. Whitly.”

She narrows her eyes. “How _dare_ you come here again and accuse my fifteen year old son — who, for your information, _worshipped_ Martin — of murder.”

Gil looks back at her steadily. “Not murder. You said it yourself that day. He was at school.” 

“I don’t suppose we’re done here?” 

“I’m just here to speak to your son,” he explains. “If you’d like a lawyer present, I can wait.”

Her nostrils flare, but she finally backs down a bit, taking a step back and waving him into her foyer with a strained smile. “I assure you, I _will_ be calling one.”

“Mother,” a quiet voice says. It’s Malcolm, pale and looking exhausted in his pajamas, the bulge of the ankle bracelet notable under the fabric on his left leg. “I told you I didn’t want a lawyer.”

“Malcolm —”

“I _don’t_.”

The way she grits her teeth is almost audible. “Fine. Don’t you say a single thing that could be twisted into a confession.” She turns back to Gil. “Trust and believe you will _not_ be allowed to talk to my son without me present.”

Behind her, Malcolm’s face is an odd mix of fear and relief. He doesn’t say a word against it, however, and so Gil agrees. 

Sitting at the table across from the two Whitlys is an odd experience. They’re pressed close together, as if they’re drawing strength from the contact, and every now and then Mrs. Whitly prods Malcolm into taking a small bite of the sandwich her cook whipped up for him. The room around them is much more grand than that picture. 

Gil doesn’t want to ask what he has to ask in front of the boy’s mother. He also doesn’t have a choice. “I visited Vijay Chandasara earlier.”

Malcolm meets his eyes for the first time, looking almost eager. 

It brings a half-smile to Gil’s face. “He asked me to pass on that he loves you.” For as much as that softens the kid’s face, Gil regrets beginning with it when he knows the rest of what he has to say will likely cause pain. He clears his throat. “He also told me your father abused you.”

Mrs. Whitly rears back, turning her head to face her son so quick Gil swears he heard the air snap. “Is that true, Malcolm?”

The kid looks at her, all the happiness leaching from his face. He screws his eyes shut for a moment, mouth creased in pain. He turns back to Gil and nods slow and reluctant.

Gil ignores the heartbreak on Mrs. Whitly’s face. “I’m not asking for details,” he says softly, “but he implied the abuse was sexual in nature, that your father forced you to do things.”

Mrs. Whitly makes a broken noise in the back of her throat. 

“Yes,” Malcolm replies, and his voice cracks on the word. He swallows thickly. “Not all of it. He also —” The kid looks over at his mother, biting his lip worryingly. “He wanted me to hurt people. Like he did.”

For the millionth time that day, Gil feels as if the ground underneath him has crumbled. “How so?”

Malcolm looks at him for what feels like a year, his gaze too weighty for a fifteen year old, prodigy or not. When he does speak, he manages to knock Gil off his feet again. “I’m sure you’ve heard of The Surgeon, Corporal.”

“Malcolm, what are you _saying?_ ” Mrs. Whitly’s voice is shrill, hysterical. “That’s — that’s a lie.”

But her son shakes his head solemnly. “I can show you proof.” His lips curl up in a miserable smile. “Serial killers like their trophies.”

God, if Gil wasn’t already thinking the boys were in the right before… his heart _aches_ for what Malcolm has gone through. “Show me.”

The basement is horrifying. Martin Whitly’s trophies aren’t locks of hair or bones or even photos, thankfully. They’re journals. Detailed reports on how he conducted his murders, what he learned during them, and how his victims’ bodies reacted. Too many of the notes scrawled across the pages involve aspects of the crimes the NYPD kept out of the press, things Gil only knows about because of working on Turner’s team. 

(There are drawings of Malcolm, too, ones he wishes he could scrub from his memory.)

He stares at it all woodenly. He always thought he would know what to do if he solved a case of this magnitude. He always thought that it would be ‘the right thing.’ Turning to the two Whitlys, Gil rubs a hand across his mouth. “I have to call this in.”

Malcolm nods. “I’m sorry.”

Gil laughs weakly. “What the hell are you sorry for, kid?”

Malcolm meets his eyes, a wealth of pain and regret in his own. “Maybe I could have stopped him earlier… maybe if I said something —”

“Don’t,” Gil says sharply. “You’re not at fault here.” He knows even as he says it that the kid will likely always carry the weight of all those deaths on his shoulders. He can already see his words are barely making an impact.

“If you say so,” Malcolm murmurs.

Gil’s head aches. If he brings all of this to Turner’s attention, he’s not sure what will happen to the kid in front of him. Nothing good, he thinks, despite what he was suffering through. He still did plan to contract a killer with his boyfriend, even if the target was a murderer himself. Gil hesitates and then makes a decision he hopes he doesn’t regret. “I need you two to consider lying.”

Mrs. Whitly’s head snaps up. “ _What?_ ”

“Not about this,” he rushes to explain. “About how your husband died. I can’t with good conscience let your son go to jail for this, and I have a plan as long as you’re willing to cooperate.”

She narrows her eyes, assessing him, but ultimately nods. “Malcolm loved his father. He never would have hired someone to kill him.”

Malcolm looks between the two, quiet. “What about Vijay?”

Gil gives him a genuine smile. “I won’t let anything happen to him, either, kid.”

Turner and Shannon aren’t sure whether to be happy or angry, and Gil can see that. He wants credit for this, of course, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t willing to share. A promotion would go a long way towards paying for his and Jackie’s wedding. He does tell them about the abuse, too, because he can already see the suspicion in the way they look at Malcolm. The illustrations are enough to back up the claim. He can’t let them consider the boy anything other than another of his father’s victims. 

He also assures them that neither Malcolm or Vijay knowingly had anything to do with Martin Whitly’s murder.

The next day, Gil is granted a visit with an inmate — one Savir Chandasara. It takes all of five minutes to get a confession from the man.

The man loves his son, and his son loves Malcolm Whitly. What else would a father with his kind of resources have done if he discovered the danger his future son-in-law was in?

## Four Months Later.

Gil eats the bite of cake Jackie proffers. He doesn’t even care that a bit of frosting falls onto his tux. He’ll worry about it later. Right now, he’s too busy looking at his wife. She’s gorgeous, as always, and he thinks he’s the happiest he’s ever been. He leans in to give her a sugary sweet kiss before looking out over the small crowd of people there to celebrate with them.

Across the room, Vijay grins and waves, a smiling Malcolm under his arm. 

It’s a good day.

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: The renowned cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. Martin Whitly is gunned down in front of his home in the fall of 2004. Later that same year, teens Vijay Chandasara and Malcolm Whitly are arrested for soliciting murder for hire. Vijay confesses he used his cocaine kingpin father’s contacts to hire a hitman to kill Dr. Whitly in order to save Malcolm from an unending nightmare of sexual abuse and other reprehensible acts Martin made his son do. Deal with the fallout.
> 
> https://prodigal-kink.dreamwidth.org/447.html?thread=74431


End file.
